


I Stand Tallest Among Flowers, And Followers

by Nakimochiku



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tesla follows Nnoitra. But it is not ambition or admiration that drives him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Stand Tallest Among Flowers, And Followers

 

 

The first time Tesla sees Nnoitra, he thinks he's beautiful. Not in a traditional way by any stretch of the imagination. But he is milk pale, with ink black hair, leaning in the window and watching the hangnail moon with a hint of barely veiled contempt. The first time Tesla sees  Nnoitra, he decides he wants everything he is, everything he has.

_ Its not like  Nnoitra  pays him any mind, sharp amethyst eyes always looking at a point just behind his head, as though he isn't there. _

He follows  Nnoitra , watches him fight, lurks in shadow, behind doors, listening to the sound of rustling clothes and soft breaths, wishing to be close enough to touch. To smell. To taste. How is he supposed to know  Nnoitra  is an espada? How is he supposed to know  he  stands further  from his grasp than the sun from the stars?

_ "Stop fucking following me, fucking cunt." He spits, whirling on him suddenly. "Think I wouldn't fucking notice? Piss off. You keep staring at me like a love struck girl, and it's hella creepy." _

He waits for  Nnoitra  after his meetings, and trots after him, stalking the white halls for prey. He wants to haul  him  into the nearest empty room and twist him apart and leave him in a crumpled heap like a broken doll. He wants to push him against the wall and kiss him senseless. They are impossible thoughts. He is not worthy.

_ Time passes with the shape of his back the only thing constant in life. The only thing he needs. If he can just walk forever behind Nnoitra, catch the scent of his hair on the breeze, he is happy. _

Nnoitra  awards him the title of  fraccion  almost reluctantly. "You already follow me around like a fucking pervert. Might as well make yourself useful." He grumbles, the  fraccion  certificate still between long white fingers. "Just... Promise to stop watching in the doorway while I'm fucking?"

Tesla nods, and reverently  takes the certificate, daringly allowing their fingers to touch and shivering at the cool skin. "Yes  Nnoitra!" He chirps.

The  espada glowers. "Don't fucking bother acting innocent. Doesn't fucking suit you, creepy little fucker." He sets off down the hall without another word, and Tesla happily follows.

_ Nnoitra  is temptation incarnate standing naked in the moonlight. And of course he doesn't remember that faithful Tesla waits nearby, watching and yearning and burning for just a scrap of the god he has deigned to follow. Just a taste of anything he would spare. _

By now  Nnoitra  is a passion, an all consuming obsession, a flame which he fears will never be put out so long as  his espada  draws breath to sneer and glower and snort. Some nights he thinks he could scream until his throat bled for wanting  him, for wanting to swallow him whole. Some nights he twists and writhes and sweats in his bed, imagining  Nnoitra's hand. Imagining  Nnoitra's dirty, over confident leer. 

Some nights he damns the consequences and watches  Nnoitra  sleep.

_And perhaps_ _ Nnoitra  doesn't know it, but he would lick his fucking boots, if _ _  he  would just look at him straight in the eyes, and say his name the way he needs. _

Tesla can't pinpoint the moment he became so pathetic. Was it when he first saw  Nnoitra? Dark haired and pale skinned in the moonlight? He thinks so. 

Was it when he first took hold of a discarded piece of clothing and pressed it to his nose, breathing deeply the espada's smell, quivering with pleasure? He thinks so.  

Was it when he first stood at the door way while Nnoitra  fucked some nameless arrancar bitch, biting his lip and wanting the canting of his hips, his harsh grunts? He thinks so.

Was it when he swallowed courage and pressed a kiss to Nnoitra's cheek? He thinks so.

_ Nnoitra  slaps him away hard and spits on him, lip curled into a haughty sneer, and now at last he's looking at him. Now at last he sees._

"You're a crazy little fuck."  The  quinta ( _the strongest_ , he  reminds himself) states loudly, frowning powerfully at Tesla on his knees. He wisely doesn't reply, because if he does he'll spit up every desire, every fantasy, every lewd thought. He'll spit it up on the sand, wet and pathetic, for Nnoitra to step on.

"I just--" he tries. He wants  Nnoitra  to kick him. He wants to be beaten for his offense. His hands curl to fists in the sand. He wants  that silky black  hair spread against white sheets, he wants heated sounds and wet gasps of breath and the tang of sweat slicked skin and his name tripping desperately off Nnoitra's  tattooed tongue. "Just a kiss." He murmurs at last.

Nnoitra glowers. He grabs Tesla by the collar and hauls him to his feet. "In love with me, you little bitch?"  he laughs cruelly. The word "love" catches in Tesla's throat as he tries to deny it. "One fucking kiss." He barks.

His lips are thin and damp. Its not a gentle kiss, the press of teeth threatening blood, clacking with his own as he hungrily  searches out  Nnoitra's  tongue. He wants to bury his hands in  his hair. He leaves them dangling at his side, fingers twitching uselessly as  Nnoitra  plunders his mouth. 

Its everything he imagines. It whets his appetite. He wants more than he can ever have. Now Nnoitra is light - years away, shining so brightly he thinks he could touch. Reach out and grasp. He's held a star in his mouth, and he won't forget the heat.

Now imagination holds sensation. Taste. Touch. And he'll writhe in bed just the same and recall this night until he wears the memory of it to ash.

_ It's not like he ever slept before now. He's merely given another reason to toss and turn and pant,  Nnoitra's  name whispered like a prayer. _

The last time he sees Nnoitra, he thinks he's a work of abstract art. Flailing limbs, black hair on white sand. Red blood splashed across white skin. Those amethyst eyes sharp, dim, fading. He's beautiful. Not in the traditional sense by any stretch of the imagination. 

"Nnoitra." 

He sheds a tear, and vows to make all of  Nnoitra  his own.


End file.
